


Roses and Wildflowers

by Contemperina



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: AU where homophobia exists, And there's a happy ending!, Bad communicators in love, But it's only mentioned in passing, But this is hurt/comfort? I guess?, Homophobia, I am late to the party, M/M, Only because Yuuri has anxiety, a.k.a warning: Yuuri's brain is in this and not doing him any favors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-22
Updated: 2018-03-22
Packaged: 2019-04-06 07:21:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14051847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Contemperina/pseuds/Contemperina
Summary: “You need some fresh air, Yuuri. Coach’s orders.”“Hey!” Yuuri yelps, flailing until he’s on his own feet. He skitters away, almost tripping over Makkachin, who’s leaping around and trying to stand on two legs like her humans. “Victor,” Yuuri sighs, straightening out his coat, “I don’t need fresh air. I need practice.”“You need both, actually,” Victor says, grabbing Yuuri’s hand and tugging him toward the door. “Fresh air will be easier.”-----After the Cup of China, Yuuri and Victor come a little bit closer to understanding each other.





	Roses and Wildflowers

**Author's Note:**

> I started this at the peak of my Yuri!!! on Ice obsession but then let it sit for months because I couldn't do my love for these characters justice. But enough is enough! It's time! Take my character study!! I can't look at it anymore. *sobs*
> 
> (Also WHAT is Makkachin's gender someone please help me. I think I read that she's a girl but tbh I might have just dreamt it?? Forgive me if I'm wrong, I had a 50/50 chance)

“It’s Monday, Victor,” Yuuri says. Victor doesn’t move his chin from its place on Yuuri’s shoulder, even when Yuuri shrugs it gently, jostling him. He’s too consumed in his search for the perfect Throwback Thursday post to mind. 

“Sure,” Victor replies, “but it never hurts to be prepared.” He continues flicking through photos. “Besides, we are on a plane. What else is there to do?”

The Cup of China has come and gone, and Victor is bursting at the seams, inexplicably certain that the picture of Yuuri beaming on the podium, silver medal in hand, is all he needs to sustain him for the rest of his natural life. Food? Never again. Drink? He’ll give it up if it means a lifetime with the man next to him, another opportunity to lie on the ice together until it starts to melt. 

Victor doesn’t know what he’ll do when Yuuri brings home his first gold. There’s no more room for pride anywhere in Victor’s body. He’d have to hollow out a leg, or hand some of it off to Yuuri, if only Yuuri would take it. 

They’re still working on that.

But this Throwback Thursday is very important—dare he say, the most important one he’s ever made. In a single post, he has to somehow pay homage to the Cup of China, to the people of China, to Yuuri, to his former coach, to  _ himself _ as a coach, to Yuuri’s competitors, and to his fans.  _ And _ to Yuuri’s fans (and maybe to Makkachin? No, he’ll save that for next week), all in one picture and a series of hashtags. It’s a tall order, even for a pro with several hours to kill. 

Yuuri huffs, but Victor’s already forgotten what he said last, so he keeps scrolling, more slowly now, until Yuuri pokes him between the eyebrows. “You’re thinking too hard,” Yuuri says. It gets muffled in Victor’s hair, and he nestles himself closer against Yuuri’s side.

“It’s important,” Victor mumbles, allowing his face to soften nonetheless. 

“Let me help,” Yuuri says.

Victor sits up a bit, winding around to look Yuuri in the eye, even as Yuuri quickly stares down into his lap, his hands clasped together. After a few seconds, though, Yuuri flicks his eyes up to meet Victor’s, and in that moment, Victor is nearly bowled over by the urge to give Yuuri everything he’s ever wanted.

“Okay,” he says and hands Yuuri the phone.

Victor has to shoot down the first few suggestions—too recent, not Chinese enough,  _ very _ unflattering (Yuuri scoffs at that)—so Yuuri goes back to the screen, his face taking on the look of concentration that Victor only just rid himself of. Victor contents himself to watch, head back in its place on Yuuri’s shoulder, and tries to take note of the pictures that make Yuuri pause. He can’t find a pattern.

“This one,” Yuuri says finally. He presents Victor with his phone, but Victor can’t place the picture immediately. “Cup of China,” Yuuri supplies. “You were 22. I think.”

“Mmm.” Victor grins, cutting a glance at Yuuri from the corner of his eye and choosing not to say anything about the addendum. Yuuri knows Victor’s life better than he does at this point. 

Victor looks down at his phone and considers. Close ages, matching locations, and  _ similar _ medals—Yuuri nods along as Victor points all of this out, and Victor can’t help but laugh upon realizing that Yuuri has been a step ahead of him this whole time. “Maybe I should get glasses, too,” Victor jokes, prompting an eyeroll that can’t quite hide Yuuri’s smile. After all, Yuuri saw what Victor wanted before he ever did.

Victor hopes he can that for Yuuri someday.

“I love it,” Victor announces, wriggling around until he’s comfortable in his seat again. “Good choice.” The photo shows Victor on the podium, wearing gold. He’s flanked on either side by senior skaters that he’d continue to beat until they retired, though he didn’t know it at the time. He wasn’t quite used to winning, back then; you can tell from the brilliant smile on his face. A real one.

“I was so happy,” he says absently, poking around at the filters. And he doesn’t dare add the next bit out loud— _ I’m finally that happy again— _ but it’s there, resting comfortably in the corners of Yuuri’s smile and the weight of his gaze. Victor doesn’t have to look to know.

When he does glance up, it’s barely in time to see Yuuri nod sharply, eyes back toward his lap. Victor moves to burrow back into Yuuri’s side, but the space he’d hollowed out for himself is gone. Victor’s side feels cold. It’s like someone posed a Yuuri-shaped statue next to him while he wasn’t looking, wondering if he’d notice, and he’s now insulted and disoriented because  _ of course  _ Victor knows the difference between flesh and concrete. 

He wishes he didn’t. He wishes he could rewind time and redo the last five minutes over and over until he figures out what happened to make Yuuri hold himself like this, then pummel himself into the ground for being complicit. 

Victor feels too heavy for his chair, suddenly, and too big. He’s no longer a stranger to this side of Yuuri, but that doesn’t make it easier to give him space. Victor wants to throw affection at him until it sticks, and he does only because he doesn’t think he can stop.

Victor pulls Yuuri’s arm around him, carving out his space again and making himself comfortable against the stiffness of Yuuri’s side. He closes his eyes even as his heart beats too fast, but eventually Yuuri softens, and only then does Victor relax. 

He cracks an eye open to a view of Yuuri’s lap and sees fidgeting, the hand that Victor hasn’t already claimed for himself. So Victor claims this one too, reaching over Yuuri to grab his far hand and pull it closer, placing a single kiss on his knuckles before laying their hands together on Yuuri’s leg. Victor looks up at him, wondering if at least this much is okay, now, and Yuuri gulps, blinking rapidly, but doesn’t pull away. 

That isn’t an answer, but Victor didn’t really ask a question, so he supposes he can’t fault Yuuri for that. He can’t fault him for much of anything, when Yuuri lets Victor love him most of the time, and loves Victor, always.

* * *

“There you go, dear,” Yuuri’s mother says the next day, setting breakfast down in front of him. “Eat up. I bet you could use a boost.”

She and Yuuri both know that’s an understatement, but he appreciates that she’s limited herself to a glance as she toddles away, instead of the observation that he’s been up all night. Again. There’s no need to put it in words when it’s so clearly written under his eyes.

He has too much to think about—that’s the problem. And when there’s too much to think about, every train of thought constricting him, ignored until suddenly there’s no room left to breathe—he uses skating to cut through. It’s cathartic, in a sad sort of way, spending an entire night in Ice Castle, alone, or an evening analyzing footage from his performances, counting the flaws. The numbers are concrete and manageable. Yuuri understands them, and he can try to fix them going forward, so he watches, and watches again.

He tried that, this time. When the color silver winked at him from across the room, making it impossible to sleep, he pulled up the footage from his latest Free Skate. But it’s different, this time: the ending. The kiss. He doesn’t understand what it means, but it’s just another problem that needs fixing, probably. So instead of watching his film on a loop, letting the video play and play and play, he’d cut it off and rewind before the final pose, before the camera had time to pan to his coach on the sidelines.

Because the one time Yuuri watched it—unsuspecting—watched  _ them,  _ together, his heart caught fire and the thoughts came for him, lithe and unrelenting until he couldn’t move. Yuuri is embarrassed of that now, privately, of the realization that even still, he doesn’t have a full understanding of his emotional range. This level of happiness is unprecedented and incomprehensible to him. So, his mind helpfully provides him a series of worst-case scenarios instead, which are much more familiar. 

Yuuri had realized it on the plane: that following an openly homosexual display, Victor’s career as a Russian athlete was probably over.

It’s easier not to think about it. It’s easier for Yuuri to think about his own shortcomings as a skater, to shroud himself in the fact that he isn’t good enough for gold, because even that is less painful than Victor throwing his life away for silver: for someone who, after months of being privately coached by the world’s best skater, after finding his Eros, finding his  _ love _ and setting it all to music, funneling it into the best program he’s ever had the privilege to skate…someone who still can’t perform the way that Victor deserves.

This morning, without Victor’s head on his shoulder to comfort him, Yuuri tries to remind himself that he still has a chance. He grasps at the feeling of standing on the podium next to Phichit, and it shifts and slides like the memory of last night’s dream. He’s almost managed to piece together some imitation of pride when reality drops back on him, shouting that the path to gold isn’t paved with silver, pinning him to the ground.

Yuuri closes his eyes wearily and realizes he hasn’t said thank you for the meal on the kotatsu in front of him. “Thanks, Mom,” he calls out belatedly as she rounds the corner back towards the kitchen. He can’t be sure she’s even heard him.

He mutters his thanks for the meal and starts shoveling it into his mouth, hardly tasting it, trying to ignore the hollow feeling behind his eyes. Victor kissed him. And Yuuri did a good job, for a while, of focusing on how warm and whole and  _ right  _ everything felt, and ignoring the tugging at his brain that said this was too good to last. 

Then the plane landed, and Yuuri pulled out his phone and Googled Russia’s LGBT policies and felt his dread lock into place like grinding gears. All night, Yuuri stared into the blackness of his room, trying not to think and thinking anyway: of Victor, who was stolen from the skating world. Victor, who allowed it. Victor, who, if Yuuri didn’t  _ know _ better—

_ “Yuuri!” _

—who is calling his name.

“Victor. Hi,” Yuuri says as Victor walks around the table, Makkachin at his heels.

“Good morning, Yuuri,” he says, squatting down so one knee touches the floor. He peers at Yuuri’s face, expression just slightly too stern to be called curious. “I suppose you did not hear me the first few times?”

“Huh?” Yuuri must be more tired than he thought if Victor’s voice didn’t get through to him. Usually, he can pick out Victor’s lilt from four rooms over, even when it isn’t his name. “No, sorry.” 

Makkachin sniffs Yuuri’s empty breakfast bowl inquisitively, only to have Victor shoo her away as he stands back up. “It’s time to walk Makkachin,” he announces.

Yuuri nods, though he can’t quite bring himself to look at Victor’s face. This is the man whose career he’s  _ destroyed _ . He’ll wait for them to return, then he and Victor will practice, and they won’t talk about it, of course, but Yuuri figures that if he works himself hard enough today, he’ll have a chance at sleeping tonight, knocking everything out of his mind with the force of pure exhaustion.

Makkachin nudges the side of Yuuri’s face, and Yuuri finds that Victor’s feet haven’t moved from their spot beside him. He raises his gaze to find a hand extended toward him, and—cautiously—continues to Victor’s face. Victor is watching him with a thin smile, as if prepared to wait the hours it might have taken Yuuri to notice the invitation if Makkachin hadn’t intervened.

“Okay. So?” Yuuri says, regarding Victor’s hand with suspicion. Victor stretches his fingers ever so slightly, like a few millimeters might make the difference between Yuuri staying or going.

“So, you are coming with us!” he says brightly.

Yuuri stares at the hand. He can’t quite make his brain combine it and the walk and Makkachin pawing at him into anything that makes sense. “Why?”

“You have been up all night watching your videos, yes?” Victor asks, flipping his head to shift the bangs out of his eyes, while the rest of him stays still.

“No! I just—I didn’t sleep that well,” Yuuri lies. “Jet lag.”

_ “Yuuuuri,”  _ Victor says, retracting his hand and putting it on his hip. “Please do not lie to me. Beijing is only one hour behind us here.”

Yuuri gulps. “I—” Victor isn’t wrong about the skating videos, but he’s yet to realize that the other half of the story is missing. But Yuuri’s silence speaks volumes, so it’s a tactical move when he quietly admits to the first part. “I’m…a little worried about what a silver means for my chance in the Final.” He leaves off the part where he’s potentially destroyed Victor’s career simply by existing. “If I can’t get gold in the prelims, what sense does it make to hope for more later? I’m not...”

Not ready? Not good enough? Not Jean-Jacques Leroy? There are a few ways to end that sentence, but Victor wouldn’t approve of any of them, so Yuuri lets it fall.

Victor is quiet for a moment, looking around the room. Then, he poses with a pointed finger. “You need some fresh air, Yuuri. Coach’s orders.” He loops a hand under each of Yuuri’s armpits and hauls him to his feet.

“Hey!” Yuuri yelps, flailing until he’s on his own feet. He skitters away, almost tripping over Makkachin, who’s leaping around and trying to stand on two legs like her humans. “ _ Victor _ ,” Yuuri sighs, straightening out his coat, “I don’t need fresh air. I need  _ practice _ .”

“You need both, actually,” Victor says, grabbing Yuuri’s hand and tugging him toward the door. “Fresh air will be easier.”

“Could you at least give me notes while we’re out?” Yuuri bargains, weaving around guests and halfheartedly trying to tear himself from Victor’s grasp.

“Nope! In fact...” Victor taps his free hand against chin. “No talking about skating until we get to Ice Castle! It is forbidden.”

“ _ Forbidden? _ ” Yuuri slows down a tad in a futile act of defiance, but Victor pulls the same tad harder, keeping them at the same pace. “How long will we be out?” Yuuri whines.

“As long as it takes!”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just what I said.”

Yuuri huffs. “And what are we supposed to talk about?”

Victor chuckles, looping back to nuzzle into the top of Yuuri’s head for just a moment before pulling him forward again.

He kneels down by the door, pulling a collar and leash from his coat and calling Makkachin over.

“There is more to me than figure skating, Yuuri,” Victor says, looking up at him as Makkachin bounds into his arms. He grins, and Yuuri’s breath catches. “You should know that by now.”

* * *

 

“Why is she wearing a leash, anyway?” Yuuri complains, stepping over it again as Makkachin weaves back and forth in what seems like a concerted effort to tie all three of them together. “I’ve never seen her more than five steps away from you by choice.”

Victor laughs—he can’t help it. Yuuri’s been pouting since Victor dragged him into the cold, but Victor is just so  _ happy _ that Yuuri let him do it at all. “I am hoping she will tangle us together like in the movies,” Victor jokes, watching Yuuri out of the corner of his eye.

“I— _ Victor,”  _ Yuuri says through a frown, though it’s starting to twitch at the corners. “That’s not something that actually happens.”

“Well, Makkachin is certainly trying her best,” he says, bending down to ruffle the dog’s fur as she runs back and forth between them. “So watch out, Yuuri!” Victor straightens up and presses a small kiss to his temple. “I might steal another kiss from you before the day is over.”

Yuuri ducks his head to hide the blush on his cheeks. “I thought we weren’t talking about skating,” he mumbles.

Victor tries to keep his voice light when he says, “We aren’t.” 

Yuuri jerks to a stop and looks up at him, eyes going wide. 

The atmosphere cracks. 

Yuuri stutters a few noises, aborted explanations to cover up some terrible mistake that only he can see, and Victor fights to keep his expression neutral as Yuuri backs away.

Yuuri roots himself in front of a park bench, cornered, eying the path like he’s trying to pick the best direction to run away in. 

There’s something Yuuri isn’t telling him, Victor realizes. He had suspected, sees it with his own eyes now but still feels lost—like he’s gained sight only to realize he’s been living deaf as well. 

Victor lets his eyebrows furrow, a small allowance he usually wouldn’t give himself. He tries to figure out what brought on Yuuri’s strange admission, shuffling the words  _ skating  _ and  _ kiss  _ and  _ me  _ and  _ us  _ until one of the combinations will hopefully make sense.

“Wait here,” Yuuri says suddenly, pressing a hand to Victor’s chest. Victor tries to grab it, something solid, but Yuuri has taken off in the direction of the ninja house. Makkachin tries to follow, pulling wildly at the leash. Victor digs in his heels like he’s never had to before, and he fears he’s about to lose them both forever until Makkachin finally calms, her rowdy barks fading into a whine. 

Victor gapes, hand extended after Yuuri, a cry of Yuuri’s name fading similarly in his throat. Makkachin has only calmed because Yuuri is no longer running, knelt down in the grass instead as a breeze buffets the trees that shade him. 

When Yuuri returns a minute later, he’s holding a small bouquet of pale blue flowers close to his chest.

It’s out of nowhere, but it’s also so unbearably touching, and Victor thinks he might faint—until Yuuri ignores his singsong, “Oh, for  _ me?”  _ and sits instead on the small bench beside him. Victor thinks again that he might faint, this time from the shock of being passed over, but his offense turns to curiosity when Yuuri looks up and pats the space next to him, delicate and hopeful.

Victor smiles, and Yuuri nods. Then, Yuuri looks away, stripping off his gloves and turning to the pile of stems beside him.

Victor unclips Makkachin from her leash and watches her tear off, bouncing around Yuuri’s bench five, six, seven times before she settles behind it in the grass.

Victor sits then and observes. Yuuri strings the flowers together, poking small holes in the stems and threading them through ever so gently. Yuuri’s hands steady and his breathing evens, and the knots all around them begin to unravel and fall away.

His Yuuri is a marvel. Victor takes a private moment to hope that Yuuri never decides to steal his dog, because he suspects that Makkachin would go with him in a heartbeat. But then again, Victor would too.

* * *

 

When Yuuri is finished, he holds up the small crown, looking back and forth between it and Victor’s head a few times before finally landing on his face. Victor is watching him softly from his spot beside him, doing a very good job of looking less confused than he must be.

“The flowers...” Yuuri says weakly, realizing only now what a strange thing he’s just done. “They reminded me, when you were 17, and you won the—”

“European Championship,” Victor cuts in, eyes crinkling. “I remember. I had long hair then.”

“I know.”

“Will it look as good on me now, do you think?” he asks, tossing his head to move his bangs aside.

“You don’t have to wear it,” Yuuri says quickly. “I don’t know why I—” He tries to throw the crown to the ground, but Victor catches his wrist and tugs him back around. Yuuri is facing him again, and Victor lowers his head slightly, offering it to Yuuri as he looks back up at him through his eyelashes.

Yuuri thinks he feels another little bit of his heart break in that moment. The man in front of him has no idea of the mess they’re in, somehow, but the way Victor looks at him is almost enough to make it not matter. 

Yuuri places the crown as ceremoniously as he can, despite the fact that his hands are shaking.

He pulls back to admire his work and loses himself for a second. Victor has never been anything less than beautiful, but now he’s radiant, smiling at Yuuri with so much affection in his eyes that Yuuri feels sure it will knock him over at any moment.

“So, what do you think?” Victor asks after a second, twisting around so Yuuri can regard him from all angles.

“ _ Beautiful _ ,” Yuuri breathes. It’s only at Victor’s questioning glance that he realizes it came out in Japanese. “Ah, beautiful!” he translates. “I mean, handsome. Very...handsome.”

“I prefer beautiful,” Victor says with a wink. He takes Yuuri’s hand from it’s uncertain hover between them and squeezes it. Then he stands, takes the other just as gently, and pulls Yuuri to his feet. 

It occurs to Yuuri that this would be a nice time to tell Victor about what’s bothering him. He almost does, going so far as to look up into those kind blue eyes, open his mouth, take a breath—and  _ then _ he fails. Surely there will be a better time, he thinks, a less important one that will be less painful to ruin.

Yuuri drops his head forward onto Victor’s shoulder.  _ I’m sorry I ruined your career,  _ he thinks.  _ I’m sorry I can’t talk about it. _

Victor moves one of his hands from Yuuri’s grip and into his hair instead. He rests it there as if to say  _ You’re perfect where you are.  _

Yuuri pretends to believe that’s true for a moment, one hand clasped in Victor’s, the other hanging in the cold air where Victor let it go. He steels himself, nodding a few times into Victor’s coat, then finally pulls away. “I think it’s time for practice,” he says with a small smile. 

Victor whistles at Makkachin, who wakes from her spot in the sunlight and darts over to them as if the last handful of minutes had never happened at all. “Okay,” Victor says.

Yuuri nods, and they turn back toward Yu-topia.

“Where did you learn to do this, Yuuri?” Victor asks after a few minutes, tapping his crown lightly where it’s still on his head.

“Oh.” He chuckles. His breath makes a cloud in the air. “Yuuko taught me, back when we were kids. It’s not perfect, but—”

“It is,” Victor cuts in. “I’m never taking it off.” He takes Yuuri’s hand back and squeezes it. At least two things today can be perfect, Yuuri thinks: the flower crown, and Victor’s hand in his.

* * *

Yuuri accomplishes what he wanted to in practice. He runs his short program and free skate for hours, trying to find something new in the music each time. He responds to Victor’s corrections, tries them a few times in isolation, and then goes back to his starting pose to run the whole thing again. He runs it over and over, and it’s only when he nearly collapses out of his free skate’s final pose that Victor insists on him leaving, because even  _ Yuuri  _ can overexert himself, and that won’t help anything, he says.

Victor’s wrong about that, though. In the locker room, on the walk home, in the hot spring, Yuuri’s body aches, but his mind is blank. It’s freedom, an emptiness that rarely lasts, but Yuuri treasures it all the same. 

That evening, when there’s nothing left to do but go upstairs and sleep, Yuuri’s mother finds him headed that direction and loads him up with fresh towels for Victor’s room. He agrees to the delivery, of course, accepting the stack with a dutiful nod, and when he’s made his way to Victor’s door, he kicks it a few times to announce himself. 

He slides it open without really waiting for a response. “I brought towels,” he murmurs and sort of holds them out in the space, thinking maybe they’ll be lifted from him without any effort on his part. When they aren’t, he looks around the dim room and finds that Victor is reclined on his bed, reading. He’s wearing sweatpants, a loose t-shirt, and a crown threaded out of wildflowers.

Yuuri’s grip tightens on the towels.

Victor had kept the crown on through practice, sure. And through dinner, which was completely embarrassing to explain to his parents. And yes, Victor  _ said _ he was never taking it off, but it never crossed Yuuri’s mind that he might wear it in private, unseen by Yuuri, or  _ anyone _ . As if the crown meant something to him, as if  _ Yuuri  _ meant something to him, even when no one is looking...

“Yuuri? What’s wrong?” Victor asks, setting the book down and sitting up straighter in bed. “You are making a face.”

“I’m not. It’s fine,” Yuuri says, glancing around the room for a place to put the towels. All the nearby surfaces are covered in knick-knacks, but he doesn’t dare venture in farther because he’s suddenly struck with the urge to cry. 

He’s just set the stack on the floor and decided to flee when Victor swings his legs off the bed and stands, walking to Yuuri too casually, like he has no idea that Yuuri is on the verge of a meltdown.

“There’s something you’re not telling me,” Victor tells him, a twinkle in his eyes. “What is it, my little katsudon?”

Yuuri jerks away when Victor reaches a hand for his cheek. “Please don’t,” Yuuri croaks, barely above a whisper, looking sideways to avoid Victor’s face, Victor’s crown. It was a miscalculation, a now-painful reminder that Victor has traded real crowns for Yuuri’s pathetic imitation and can’t even see how far he’s fallen. 

“...Yuuri?” Victor says, less certain this time. His hand, reached halfway out to Yuuri’s face, hangs in the air, curling in on itself.

“Can you just—take that off, please,” Yuuri whispers, gesturing to the crown while his eyes skitter along the ground.

“Why?”

Yuuri thoughts pile up faster than he can dismiss them. “Because...” He needs more time: to process this, and to train. He’s not good enough, should be better, at skating, and handling himself when he gets like this. Victor likes him for some reason, though, and Victor _kissed_ him, but Victor is _still wearing the crown,_ and Yuuri needs to run out of the room and deal with this later. It would be so easy, he thinks, until he looks up at Victor’s face.

Victor has moved his outstretched hand to the crown, uncertainly, a broken look on his face. 

Yuuri has to explain.

“ _ Because— _ ” Yuuri says again, trying to give it more power. There are too many things he could say. How does he explain that seeing Victor in this feeble attempt at a crown makes it harder to breathe? The words get jumbled up in his throat on the way out and leave him making an uncertain sound to fill the space. 

Yuuri can see that Victor is lost and hates that he’s the cause, yet the words still don’t come. “...Does it look bad?” Victor says after a moment, unsteadily. 

“What?  _ God _ , no,” Yuuri scoffs. “You’re gorgeous, don’t be stupid!”

“Why, then?” 

“Because it’s  _ not good enough  _ for you,” Yuuri says. He hears it after, like someone else said it, the words hitting his brain through his ears. 

Victor flinches. “The crown?” 

“No,  _ me!” _

Yuuri’s thoughts are organizing themselves, now, and they aren’t kind. Yuuri might have been better off without them.

“What? Yuuri, you—” Victor stutters. 

_ “ _ You threw away your career, Victor!” Yuuri says. “For me! I stole you from the skating world—that’s what everyone says—but now that you came out on international television, you can  _ never go back!” _

Victor looks like someone slapped him, and Yuuri feels like he’s choking, but he presses on.

_ “ _ And don’t try to tell me that that’s not true, Victor, because  _ I googled it! _ As soon as we got off the plane. Russia will let you skate, but they won’t let a gay man  _ win _ . That’s what the forum said. Are you gay? We haven’t talked about it. Maybe you’re bi? You have to be, the way women act around you, which means you could be with anyon— _ ” _

“ _Stop,”_ Victor slaps his hands on Yuuri’s shoulders, jolting him to a halt. “Yuuri, stop!”

“I  _ can’t!” _ It comes out strangled, muddled by tears, angry and much more honest than Yuuri had meant it to.

“I don’t know what to do with you when you’re like this,” Victor mutters, when Yuuri jerks away from his touch.

“That makes two of us.”

“You make so many assumptions. Where do I start?” Victor says. He runs a hand through his hair, muttering in Russian. “How about this?” he offers, expression determined. “I couldn’t be with just  _ ‘anyone’,  _ as you say.”

“Of course you could,” Yuuri retorts. “You’re Victor Nikiforov.”

Victor folds his arms. “What does that mean?”   
  
“You’re—” Victor is waiting for a response, tapping his foot, but how does Yuuri explain that being Victor Nikiforov is synonymous with being an idol? With being a  _ god?  _ “You’re  _ Victor Nikiforov,” _ he says again, with more emphasis this time.

Victor sighs and uncrosses his arms, the edge of his impatience turning to something gentle. He turns over his shoulder and eyes his bed for a moment, but it’s across the room, and he doesn’t leave Yuuri’s side.

“I don’t know who that is, Yuuri,” Victor says after some time, eyes low. “ _ Victor Nikiforov _ .” He brushes his bangs from his eyes. “I made my career by meeting other people’s expectations for me. And I was very good.” He smiles, and it matches the wilting petals of his crown. “And I got maybe  _ too _ good, because even now, I am not always sure who I would be, without someone looking. But...” Victor looks sideways, and Yuuri can see him thinking, working up courage. “The closest I feel to knowing.” Victor meets Yuuri’s eyes and takes a shaky breath, “...Is when I’m with you.”

Yuuri blinks once, again. He doesn’t dare read between the lines. “Victor, I—you  _ can’t _ ...”  _ Love me,  _ a voice in his head finishes, hopeful and pessimistic all at once. 

“I can, and I do,” Victor says, understanding somehow. He grips Yuuri’s upper arms and tugs until their noses are nearly bumped together, and Yuuri wishes it were awkward, that it were strange or wrong enough that he’d have the motivation to run away, but it isn’t.

“If I want to go back to skating,” Victor says, “I will go back to skating.” He moves his hands to the sides of Yuuri’s face, his grip gentle. “I  _ am _ Victor Nikiforov,” he says, smirking, “and if that means one thing, I know it is that.”

Yuuri wants to laugh and nearly does, exhaling a little air out of his nose. “But what about...?” He raises his gaze to Victor, only to find that Victor has looked off into the middle distance toward his closed door. 

“My sexuality and my government have been at odds for quite some time, Yuuri,” he says, a twitch at the edge of his lips. “But the good thing about being an international skater is, it is not just one government who decides.”

“So you could go back? Really?”

“I could.”

Yuuri relaxes, releasing one worry, but another one spins up in its place. He stiffens and bites back his next question because he isn’t ready to hear that Victor  _ will _ go back, even though he knows: Victor will one day leave him to return to his glamorous life of gold medals and podiums, if not in Russia then on the world’s stage. The world will be better for it.

“You make me happy, Yuuri,” Victor says carefully, meeting Yuuri’s eyes again. He hums when Yuuri puts his arms around Victor’s waist and tucks his head under Victor’s chin. “What can I do to make you believe me?”

Barely above a whisper, Yuuri breathes, “Be here.”  _ You being here is enough, _ Yuuri thinks, and holds on.  

Victor laughs for the first time in what seems like ages, the sound warm and light where Yuuri’s ear rests on his chest, against the well-worn cotton of his shirt. “Okay,” Victor says, nuzzling into Yuuri’s hair. “I am.”

Yuuri grins and picks up his head. Victor meets him, and there’s a question in his eyes; Yuuri nods, barely, closes his eyes, and Victor’s lips meet his. Victor presses into him, gathering him up, confidently, softly, and Yuuri wraps his arms around Victor’s neck without thinking about it, tilting his head to deepen the kiss. 

He thinks he might be crying, because everything he’s ever wanted has just been threaded into a single, magnificent moment, the magnitude of it almost too much to bear. And—yes, Yuuri’s certainly crying, now, but Victor is kissing away his tears and murmuring to him in Russian and English and broken Japanese, and Yuuri feels love flowing through them both like music,  _ agape _ and  _ eros _ and others that he doesn’t know how to name.

They hold each other, broken apart for just a moment, their breathing the only sound in the cluttered room. Yuuri doesn’t know what Victor was saying, exactly, but he thinks it must mean something like  _ Everything will be okay _ .

When Yuuri brushes his fingers over Victor’s flower crown, adorably off-kilter now, Victor beams at him, sunshine in the dark, and he looks like he's on top of the world.

  
  
  
  
  



End file.
